Intersection Points
by Lil black dog
Summary: The friendship of Jim Kirk and Spock of Vulcan is the stuff of legend. But how would Spock's life have been different if he had never joined Starfleet, instead following the wishes of his father and accepting a position at the Vulcan Science Academy? Spock, T'Pring, Amanda, I'Chaya, OC. Dunno why, this got deleted first time posted...


A/N: The friendship of Jim Kirk and Spock of Vulcan is the stuff of legend. But how would Spock's life have been different if he had never joined Starfleet, instead following the wishes of his father and accepting a position at the Vulcan Science Academy? Written for the 'Paths Not Taken' challenge at Ad Astra.

This story is told through dreams. Dreams represent canon TOS episodes and waking moments the events of this alternate universe. There are several nods to my own fanon as well.

Beta: Elessar1201 and Mackenzie Calhoun did a brain check on this for me. No technical beta, so all mistakes are mine.

**Intersection Points**

"_You've GOT to hear me!" the gold-clad human shouted, followed by a powerful backhand, and then a second. _

_He caught the hand in mid-swing, preventing the human from landing a third blow. _

"_We need a formula—we've got to risk implosion!" his adversary bellowed, their hands still locked together._

"_It's never been done," he insisted forcefully, slamming the other's hand onto the table before them. He stepped away from the man; turned to face him. "You don't understand, Jim. I've spent a whole lifetime learning to hide my feelings."_

_The man struck him again. He responded with a backhand of his own, sending the human tumbling across the table to land with a thud on the steel decking beyond. The other was on his feet in an instant, now leaning heavily on the table that separated them. _

"_We've got to risk implosion—it's our only chance!"_

"_It's never been done," he informed the human for a second time, his voice now heavy, defeated._

"_Don't tell me that again, Science Officer! It's a theory. It's possible…"_

_The other's look was beseeching, on the verge of panic, and inexplicably it touched him in ways he could not comprehend. He knew without a doubt he would do whatever it took to keep from disappointing this man. Feverishly, he began processing the problem, stringing the figures together in his head, striving to find that solution which would turn certain death into a fighting chance…_

He awoke with a start, crumpled over the desk in his study. He had been working on this problem for a week in his lab at the Vulcan Science Academy, but the last pieces of the puzzle had continued to elude him.

Grabbing a PADD, he began to scribble down the sequence of numbers and symbols he had seen in the dream. His hand moved of its own volition, as if disconnected from his conscious thought processes.

When he was done, he carefully examined the results. Were he not Vulcan, he would have permitted himself to feel a slight bit of satisfaction. The last variables had fallen into place. The formula would work, of that he was certain.

Now that his task was completed, he began to explore that which had provided him with the answer. Who was Jim? Why would he be explaining the lifelong process of dealing with his dual nature to a human he didn't even know? And the man had been in a Starfleet uniform; that of a captain if he were not mistaken. Why would he be addressing this man by his given name and not his title? In the dream things had degenerated into fisticuffs between them. He shivered slightly. He had not used physical violence against another individual since he was a small child. Despite the positive results the dream had produced for his research, he found the method that had delivered the solution somewhat unsettling. He shook his head slightly, as if that motion would clear the disturbing images from his mind.

_Kaiidth_, he said silently. _How I arrived at the correct formula is of no importance. The fact that I have produced it for the Vulcan Science Academy, and that we shall be able to supply the information to Starfleet ahead of other prestigious scientific institutions in the Federation which were also tasked with finding the solution is significant._

Through the years, the department over which he presided was often outsourced to Starfleet, and was expected to provide the Federation's main expeditionary force with cutting edge technological advances wherever the need arose. As the institution's program of five-year missions with its refurbished fleet of twelve starships had just begun several months ago, a number of heretofore unanticipated problems were sure to surface. Last week his department had been recruited to undertake one such problem. He recalled the classified communiqué:

_One week ago the flagship of Starfleet's Constitution-class vessels was almost lost before her mission had barely begun. A virus had unknowingly been carried aboard that caused serious lapses in judgment for the majority of the crew. One crewman took it upon himself to shut down the massive ship's engines while the vessel was in orbit around Psi 2000—a planet locked it its death throes. As this was something that had never been witnessed before, the ship had been dispatched to analyze and catalogue this singular event. Had the error not been detected when it was, allowing for a normal restart of the engines, the ship would surely have burned up in a decaying orbit as the planet tore itself apart, killing everyone aboard. _

_It has been theorized that matter and anti-matter can be combined cold, causing a controlled implosion of the engines, but the correct formula has yet to be discovered. This would allow for an almost instantaneous restart of engines, as opposed to the thirty minute warm-up period now required to regenerate them. Starfleet has tasked the top scientific institutions in the Federation with producing such a formula, if possible, in an effort to avoid such a calamity in the future._

He switched on his computer interface, tying into Starfleet's main computers. After several minutes he came across an article—clearly intended to garner public support for the exorbitantly expensive five-year mission program—which listed the _Enterprise_ as the flagship of the fleet. She was commanded by a young human male named James T. Kirk. Pulling up the captain's dossier, the holo attached to the record confirmed the identity of the man from his dreams. For reasons he could not fathom, he had dreamt of a man he'd never met.

He clicked off the viewer and climbed to his feet. A glance at the chronometer told him the hour was late, but he knew sleep would prove elusive and meditation ineffective. He padded down the stairs and out onto the stone terrace surrounding his home. He settled into a chair, casting his eyes skyward as the chill night wind ruffled his hair; swirled his dark robes about his ankles.

Since childhood the cosmos had held a special fascination for him; so much so that at one point in his youth he had entertained the idea of joining Starfleet. The opportunities it presented for a scientist to study the universe were limitless, but there was another side to the institution; a darker side that went against the pacifist teachings of his father's people. Starfleet was also the military arm of the Federation, its ships bristling with weapons that could lay waste to a planet or destroy an adversary's spacecraft with the touch of a button.

He had broached the subject with his parents, but the idea had been met with stubborn resistance on both fronts: His human mother's primary concern had been the emotional, irrational fear for his safety, while his father had objected on moral grounds. Vulcans were a logical race who had cast out their animal passions millennia ago. This included aggression toward any species, for whatever reason. Granted, Starfleet only used weapons and violence as a last resort; in self-defense, but even under these circumstances the use of force was unacceptable to the true devotees of Surak.

As he had grown older, Spock suspected his father's objection sprang from a desire to paint his son in a positive light as well—Sarek did not want his half-human son's actions to be misinterpreted as being beholden to the principles of his mother's people. Throughout his son's formative years Sarek had struggled to ensure that Spock would be perceived by his contemporaries as wholly Vulcan. This often entailed unrealistic expectations by Sarek on the part of his son. In many ways, his father insisted the boy be more Vulcan than his peers. Spock strove to live up to his father's ideals, but while he often did surpass the academic and mental abilities of his fellow Vulcans, that did little to alter their opinion of him.

One of the twelve starships that had undertaken Starfleet's five-year mission of exploration and discovery—the _Intrepid_—was manned by an all-Vulcan crew, but Spock had decided early-on that he did not wish to spend his life in such close proximity to other members of his father's race. For him, being subjected to the constant scrutiny that was sure to come with such a posting was not an option. Granted, he was now living on his father's home planet, working and interacting with full-blooded Vulcans on a daily basis, but here he had the sanctuary of his home. Humans had a saying: "A man is the king of his castle," and that was certainly true in his case. Once he entered, he could leave the outside world and its elitist, almost xenophobic standards behind. That wouldn't always be possible on the confines of a starship. His home afforded him the privacy he sought—he _needed_—to survive among those who still tended to judge him by his alleged human failings rather than his concrete professional accomplishments.

Something moist and leathery brushed his hand, accompanied by the sound of snuffling. He reached out to pat the enormous head; scratch behind the furry ears.

"I'Chaya," he said affectionately to the ancient sehlat before him, "It was not my intention to disturb your rest as well my old friend."

The beast answered with a shiver of delight, leaning into the probing fingers that knew the precise spot to massage to offer the maximum amount of pleasure.

The sehlat had been with him for as long as he could remember; his only constant companion whose affection was not contingent upon how Vulcan—or how human—he was perceived to be.

As when he was a young child, somehow verbalizing that which was bothering him to his pet helped him make sense of that which was unclear. He began speaking to the sehlat, pouring out his confusion to his silent confidant as he had done when he was a boy.

"I do not understand this dream. I have never met James Kirk before, nor am I acquainted with him in any way." He grew quiet for a time, his fingers still wandering aimlessly through the thick fur. I'Chaya settled his massive head in his master's lap, a sigh of contentment escaping the graying muzzle.

"And yet, I felt a strong bond of kinship to him, a loyalty and camaraderie one would grant to a close friend. Most illogical."

As it stood now, he had no close friends; at least none with whom he felt comfortable enough to permit them to touch the unguarded core of his being. He had many strong collegial relationships, and enjoyed the company of several peripheral acquaintances, but this lack of intimacy did not cause him any undue distress. Fulfillment was derived from satisfying his insatiable scientific curiosity, and from a range of eclectic personal pursuits, such as honing his skills on the Vulcan lyre and Terran piano, a voracious appetite for a wide variety of literature and non-fiction spanning numerous Federation worlds, and mastery of the human game of chess. In the seventeen point two years he had been living on his own he had not only come to accept, but to relish the freedom and independence his solitude brought him. Until this moment he had never felt that extreme sense of isolation, that _aloneness_ that had plagued him as a boy. Since accepting a position at the VSA at the age of eighteen, he had been content with the path his life had taken.

Why had that changed suddenly?

After several minutes Spock climbed to his feet, gently disentangling himself from the companion of his youth. "It was nothing more than chance," he explained to the large, shaggy creature before him. "I must have inadvertently come across the human's holo before. I also must have realized on a subconscious level that it was his vessel that was almost destroyed fifteen days ago. It was a one-time occurrence and will not happen again," he reasoned.

I'Chaya yawned in response, and after a final chuff at his master's legs, shuffled off to settle himself beneath a nosan bush in the fenced yard. Resting his head on his paws, he closed his eyes.

Spock took that as his cue, retiring to his bedroom as well. Tomorrow he would present the intermix formula to officials from Starfleet thus ending his brief, unexpected connection to the mysterious young human captain.

oooOOOooo

_**One year later**_

_He was burning up. It felt as if the skin would melt from his body, his eyes liquefy in their sockets. He tried to focus his senses on his surroundings, but a green haze shrouded his vision; a thrumming in his ears drowned out most sounds. All he could feel was scorching heat; could only taste all-encompassing desire._

"_This one," he heard as if from a great distance. Through the green haze he could see his betrothed pointing a finger at the chest of a man with rounded ears dressed in gold._

No! He is my friend. He does not know—I will do what I must, but not with him, _his addled brain supplied. His feet began moving of their own volition toward the center of the arena. He confronted the old woman standing there on the altar, begging for this man's life. She merely ignored the request, sneering at his lack of control._

_His vision clouded over again as the frenzied chime of bells matched the frenetic pulsing of his blood. The acrid perfume of sulfur assaulted his nostrils. The heat became nearly unbearable. He felt light-headed, nauseous._

_Suddenly all other sounds ceased as the matriarch beside him spoke: "It is done. Kirk…decide."_

"_I accept the challenge," were the last words he heard as rational thought took flight on incorporeal wings. He felt the weight of the weapon that had been thrust into his hands, grasped it with a single-minded determination and focus. He must win at all costs if he wished to quell the fever raging within him._

_He moved as if sleepwalking, intent only on dispatching his opponent as quickly as possible. The sickening stench of iron-based blood filled the air as his lirpa connected with the alien challenger before him, slicing a thin line across the man's chest._

_Again, all sound slowly faded away. He was plagued by tunnel vision, only seeing the adversary flat on his back before him_. He is down, weaponless, helpless. I can end this here, now, with one final thrust._ His thoughts were sharp, one-dimensional. He raised the lirpa high above him. "Spock, no!" he heard from an unknown voice in the background as he plunged the weapon downward with terrifying force. His opponent rolled to one side, barely avoiding the killing blow._

"_Kroykah!" the old woman bellowed, and he froze instantly._

_A new weapon was placed in his hand and he quickly overpowered his rival; wrapped the cord of the ahn woon around the man's neck and began to tighten it inexorably. The gold-clad human responded by attempting to choke him with his bare hands, but to no avail. Soon the sweaty, alien grip on his neck weakened, fell away. The human fingers flew to the ancient Vulcan weapon enveloping his throat; tried valiantly to loosen it. Weak, guttural grunts escaped from the challenger as his body went rigid. The man's struggles ceased. The gold-clad body toppled to the ground._

_It was over. The human was dead._

_He rolled over, yanking his victim up by the strap around his throat, and found himself staring into the face of his best friend._

He awoke, sweating, the sheets clinging unnaturally to his naked body, his hair plastered to his forehead. Yet he was shaking uncontrollably, chills wracking him, teeth chattering despite the muscles of his jaw straining with the effort to clamp it tightly shut. He threw back the covers, swinging his legs to the floor, propping his aching head in his hands, a groan torn from his parched throat. The dream had been vivid, and most unsettling.

_My friend?_ he thought again. _The human starship captain named Kirk? Why was he present at my koon-ut-kal-if-fee ceremony, and why did I feel such overwhelming guilt and loss when it became clear I had killed him? I do not know this man._ And yet, the involuntary reactions of his body were telling him otherwise. The kaleidoscopic flow of jumbled emotions he had experienced upon seeing the dead man's face had been like nothing he'd ever encountered before, even during the most tumultuous years of his youth.

This man had not invaded his dreams for a year. Why had his subconscious chosen this moment to entertain thoughts of the human once again? He passed a hand over his face, trying to clear the cobwebs of illusion from his mind. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a female form in the bed beside him. Slowly, reality filtered in, replacing the ghostly images from the dream:

He waited, alone, on the sands of his family's place of koon-ut-kal-if-fee. He could hear the marriage party approaching; sense the thoughts of his betrothed as she came ever nearer: _No! I believed this day would never come! I was certain his half-breed physiology would prevent it and I would one day be free of him. This is my worst nightmare—the abomination that wears the face of our people will soon seek to claim me as his wife. I cannot allow that to happen. I will not be forced to bear his bastard, sub-standard children. I must escape this fate._ Just as quickly as the bond had flared to life, it went dark again.

As in the dream she had tried to divorce him by the kal-if-fee—the challenge—but he had met and killed her Vulcan champion—the one called Stonn—thus claiming her as his chattel. The last five days were a blur. He was accosted by snippets of ravaging the woman over and over as the fever continued to burn within him.

Appalled and sickened, his eyes strayed to the woman in his bed one again. She was also naked, and sleeping—or at least feigning sleep—her back to him, the covers down around her waist. Bile rose in his throat as he realized he was responsible for the visible bruises and scratches on her body. He had used her to quench the fires of the blood fever. It did not matter that he had not been in control of his faculties at the time, or that it had been his right to do so; he had physically harmed another.

He fought down the urge to retch as all things became clear: He had taken T'Pring as his wife. _No!_ he said silently, echoing her unbidden and unwelcome thoughts from days ago. _I had hoped I would be spared this. _But the ancient drives had been too strong; his unpredictable biology had won; forced them both into a situation neither had wanted.

He lurched to his feet, heading for the small bathroom adjoining his bedroom. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet, wracked by dry heaves. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. His stomach had been empty for days. There was nothing left for his body to expel.

After several minutes he raised himself on shaky legs; staggered to the sink; splashed cool water onto his face; met the horrified brown eyes in the mirror.

It was done.

She was his wife. There was no way for him to divorce her now, at least simply on the grounds that he did not want her. He would have had to relinquish his claim to her immediately after the challenge. But he had been too far gone to do so. Had he initiated the marriage ceremony a week earlier he could have dismissed her; sought out the services of a surrogate to help him in his time of need. But he had not known she would demand the challenge, thus offering him the chance to be free of her, and so he had resisted the siren call of his biology, stubbornly believing until it was too late that he could master it. The fever had robbed him of all rational thought. The compelling urge to mate or die had left him no choice—he had taken her to his bed during Pon Farr and was now bound to her till death. His peaceful life of self-enforced solitude was over.

He slipped on a robe; made his way noiselessly to the door to his bedroom. He walked out, closing the door silently behind him, not sparing a glance at the woman lying in his bed.

oooOOOooo

He was sitting on the couch in his living room, staring out of the picture window across the room, mulling over recent events. It had been three days since his thoughts and actions had become his own again, and he had not seen her in all that time. During the first day he had brought her a tray of food, knocking respectfully at the closed door, but she had dismissed him, refusing him entry. In many ways that had been a great relief—he had not wished to see her; was still unprepared for their inevitable confrontation. She was his now, but he came to know that despite his recent actions to the contrary he did not want her; that he would never feel for her the intimate connection shared by his parents.

While he could not divorce her, he did not need to assume the responsibilities with regard to the physical and mental intimacies that went along with a Vulcan marriage. She was his chattel and he could do with her as he wished. As he was deciding how to handle the situation, his thoughts were interrupted by muffled footfalls.

He glanced behind him in time to see T'Pring disappear into the kitchen. Soundlessly he got to his feet, making for the other room. He observed her discreetly from the doorway. She pulled a steaming mug from the food synthesizer; seated herself at the table, sipping cautiously at the hot liquid.

"I trust you are feeling better," he began awkwardly, his words trailing off as she raised her face to look at him. There were dark circles under her eyes, a dark teal smudge on one of her cheeks, indicative of a healing bruise. Her lips were swollen, cracked.

While her injuries were consistent with those inflicted upon a female when helping a male through his Pon Farr, they were not nearly as severe as they might have been. Nevertheless he felt a stab of guilt at being the cause of them. "You are ill," he said, "or at least have suffered at my hands. I shall call a healer."

Her look became empty, vacant. "That is true, perhaps more than you know or understand, but contacting a healer will not be necessary. Even one skilled in the medical arts cannot help me now."

He took a step toward her; clasped his hands behind his back. "Explain," he demanded quietly.

Her eyes locked onto his. "I am with child," she informed him coolly.

Relief washed over him like an intense, desert rain. Initially he had believed that she meant something else entirely. As much as he wished to be free of her, he did not want that on his conscience. "How do you know this? It has only been three days since my Pon Farr ended. You cannot be certain." He lifted an eyebrow in confusion.

"Fool!" she sneered. "The child is not yours. I came to the matrimonial bed with a full womb. It is Stonn's."

She was watching him closely, as if expecting an emotional outburst of some kind. He refused to grant her the satisfaction. "I see. You are aware I can divorce you for this?" he responded calmly, evenly.

The corners of her mouth turned up ever-so-slightly. "But you won't, for not only would it bring shame to me, but to your family as well," she said, wrapping her hands around the mug of warm liquid. "That is perhaps your only redeeming quality, Spock—you are noble; cannot bear to see those around you suffer, especially if you believe you are the cause of that suffering."

She raised the mug to her lips, taking a cautious swallow. "Can you imagine what our people would say?" she asked finally. "Ambassador Sarek's half-breed son could not even maintain a proper mental bond with his betrothed, preventing her from straying into the arms of another as his Pon Farr approached. One of the most powerful men on the planet brought to his knees by his son's chattel." She seemed to relish the thought. "It is a delightful prospect."

Her eyes gleamed with self-satisfaction. "You see, I did consider what would happen if Stonn were defeated," she informed him confidently, "and took precautions against such a development. I may be your property, but I am not without leverage. You would do well to remember that. I shall keep silent and preserve your father's dignity as long as certain conditions are met."

"Such as?" he heard himself ask.

"You shall grant me full status as your wife. It is within your rights to do so, and I refuse to be acknowledged as your property in the eyes of others. The only saving grace for me in this absurd union is that it has elevated my status. It is my intention to take full advantage of that.

"In addition, we shall be married in name only. I will play the part publicly, but in private we will each lead our own lives. I will no longer share your bed. At the time of your next Pon Farr, a suitable surrogate will be found. I will not be forced to bear your tainted offspring. My children will be of pure blood, unsullied by your human flaws."

"You presume much," he responded, not surprised by her audacity. He had known for some time the depth of treachery of which she was capable. "My father and I do not see eye to eye on many things, and his dignity is of little concern to me. Conversely, it is more likely that you will be viewed unfavorably since it was you who broke the sacred trust of the matrimonial bond. That is only permitted during the koon-ut-kal-if-fee ceremony. In light of that, why should I agree to your terms? You stand to lose much more than I." He folded his arms across his chest; waited patiently for an answer.

"A possibility," she conceded, "but you will agree nevertheless, for destroying your father would surely destroy your mother. Despite the situation between you and your father, you exhibit a marked weakness where she is concerned, and would not wish to see her hurt in any way. Again, an example of that noble streak which runs through you; a failing of your human half, no doubt," she added as an afterthought.

It was her turn to pause, waiting for his decision. He considered the situation from all angles. In all honesty he found the proposition most agreeable. He did not love her—was repulsed by her, in truth—and had not intended to invite her to his bed again. However, being married would bring some respectability and normalcy to his life, in both the eyes of his peers and his parents. Most Vulcan males experienced their first Pon Farr in their early twenties. The fact that he was in his mid-thirties had been cause for concern for his father, and led to rampant speculation among his fellow Vulcans.

If she would not intrude on his life that was a definite plus, and the birth of a child would prove to anyone who doubted him that he had fulfilled the biological mechanics of Pon Farr. If anything, it would cement his position as a strong Vulcan male in the eyes of his father's people.

These were all things he desired; so much the better to allow her to think she had been the architect of this bizarre pact. If need be, he could disavow her of the notion at a later time. For now, let her believe she was the one who held the power. It would surely be her undoing.

"I agree to the terms," he said at last, allowing a slight bit of defeat to bleed into his tone.

"As I knew you would," she replied with a contemptuous smirk. "And now I shall move my things to the spare bedroom at the end of the hall." She climbed to her feet, swallowing the dregs from her mug and brushing past him without a word.

His only emotion upon hearing that was profound relief.

oooOOOooo

_**Three months later**_

He stood alone in the near-empty spaceport, having removed himself from the tight knot of government officials awaiting the arrival of the long-range shuttle and its Stygian cargo.

He could scarcely believe it. His father was dead. Not killed in the line of duty, assassinated by those who disagreed with Vulcan's position on any number of issues, but dead due to a heart defect. His father had gone to great lengths to keep his health concerns hidden, both from the authorities and his family. Ultimately that had been his downfall. Sarek had retired as Vulcan's ambassador to the Federation two point six months ago, but had been pressed back into service by the High Council to represent Vulcan in determining Coridan's right to join the Federation. Admittance was to be weighed at the Babel Conference. He experienced an acute attack aboard the starship—the _Enterprise_ of all vessels—assigned to convey him and a host of other dignitaries and ambassadors to the planet codenamed Babel, causing further damage to his already weakened heart. While the human surgeon aboard the ship had wanted to operate, a surgery of that nature would have required vast amounts of blood. None of the other Vulcans aboard were a match for his father's rare blood type. Even though the starship had made an emergency rendezvous with another vessel in hopes of getting the ambassador the prompt medical attention he required, Sarek had died while en route to a Federation hospital.

Spock glanced around the spaceport. The long-range shuttle would be docking momentarily. Thankfully, the public venue had been emptied of all patrons, the other arriving and departing flights delayed in favor of this one. He was impressed with the foresight and compassion the authorities had shown. His mother was a strong woman and adhered to many of the mannerisms and customs of her adopted homeland, but there was no telling how this devastating development had affected her.

The airlock doors parted, drawing the attention of all eyes in the room. As the personnel aboard the small craft began to file through the spherical opening, the flag-draped coffin emerged first, carried aloft on the shoulders of four pallbearers. Amanda walked directly behind it—her place as Sarek's bondmate—with the other members of the entourage following at a respectable distance.

Spock moved to take up station behind his mother's right shoulder—his place as Sarek's only surviving child—as the procession continued in silence, traversing through the building to the waiting aircar that would take the ambassador on the final leg of his journey. His body would be returned to his home where he would be cremated according to Vulcan custom. Spock observed his mother out of the corner of his eye. She walked confidently, with her head held high, but looked so small and frail…and so alone.

The members of the entourage and government officials stood silently, respectfully, with heads bowed as Sarek's coffin was loaded into the aft compartment of the aircar. Spock glanced surreptitiously at his mother; saw her flinch slightly as the hatch closed with a resounding thud.

"Mother," he said, willing his voice not to break. He had not anticipated how seeing her in this fragile state would affect him.

She turned to face him. "Oh, Spock," she breathed. He watched as she bit her lip, her eyes puffy, red-rimmed. Although a solitary tear slid slowly down her cheek she didn't speak or touch him; refused to give in to her human needs under the prying eyes of those present. Spock knew she was doing it as a way to protect him; to preserve his dignity. He would have none of it; could not bear to see her suffer so.

He reached out and drew her close, gently enfolding her in the safety of his arms. She buried her head against his chest, clinging to him for dear life. Her body shook with her outpouring of grief, but no sounds escaped her. She would not grant the onlookers that satisfaction, at least.

He ignored the pointed stares and raised eyebrows from those around them. His father was dead; would no longer be able to question or disapprove of his actions. He was married now—victor in the only kal-if-fee on the planet in a century—with a child on the way. That would silence any who doubted his status as a true Vulcan. All that mattered to him now was offering the only person who was important to him the consolation and comfort she sought—she _needed_—at the moment.

oooOOOooo

He knelt before his asenoi, fingers steepled together, eyes closed, but meditation was not providing him with the answers he sought. His thoughts strayed to that which had brought him here at this hour of the night in the first place:

In the dream his father had survived, for he, Spock, had been on board the _Enterprise _and had served as the blood donor for Sarek. At first, that had not been a viable option, but somehow the fair-haired captain named Kirk and his irascible senior medical officer had orchestrated the entire affair, making it possible both for Spock to be present at the time of the surgery and to produce the large quantities of blood necessary for the risky procedure.

The details were unclear, the images fading rapidly from his waking eyes, but he did recall a tense, emotional scene with his mother and he and his father teasing the Lady Amanda while recuperating in sickbay after the operation.

For some reason, Kirk had been there, too, sidelined by an unknown, life-threatening injury. To his surprise, Spock had been greatly relieved that this man had survived as well. Spock knew the human captain had somehow risked his own life in order to provide Spock with the opportunity to save his father. As to Kirk's reasoning behind putting Sarek's life before his own, Spock could not even begin to speculate.

While grateful to the human captain and to the ship's surgeon for the care and concern they exhibited, both to him and his parents, the dream had forced him to examine issues better left untouched. He certainly had not wished for his father's death, but with Sarek gone he could already see the tentative beginnings of a closeness between him and his mother that would not have been possible otherwise. It would not entail the public displays of affection often present in human familial relationships, but it would differ from the aloofness typical of Vulcan families. Without fear of disapproval from Sarek they would be charting new territory, and he found that he relished the opportunity to do so. Due to the constraints of his upbringing he had known his mother didn't fully grasp the depth of his feelings for her. Now he would have the chance to remedy that situation.

oooOOOooo

_**Four months later**_

He heard the cries from behind the closed door; soft at first, then robust, vigorous. Only the sounds were similar to his dreams of last night; the setting was totally without reference: _He found himself on a dusty, rocky planet dotted with sparse, stunted vegetation. He was seated on the ground outside of a cave, the human Kirk at his side, both fashioning antiquated weapons out of sticks and stones—whatever raw materials were on hand. _

_A cry sounded from the interior of the cave, different from the ones that had preceded it for almost half an hour now. A man appeared in the entranceway; also human and wearing the blue of Starfleet's sciences. Grinning broadly, he beckoned with his chin for them to enter. He and the one called Kirk climbed to their feet; followed the other inside._

_Once there, the man in blue—the senior physician on Kirk's ship he realized with a jolt—retrieved a bundle from the floor of the cave. With a mischievous smirk the human thrust the black-swathed object into his arms. Cries immediately erupted from the tiny being within._

"Spock."

The vision melted away, to be replaced by the woman standing before him. "Your daughter," the midwife's assistant informed him, holding out the small, wriggling mass wrapped in a soft, white blanket.

He took the newborn from her, cradling the small body against his chest. The infant, who had been wailing lustily, quieted at once, gazing at him intently.

He reached out to gently stroke a delicately shaped ear. The child grasped his finger in her tiny fist and he immediately felt the stirrings of the parental bond. She might not be of his flesh, but she would be his child all the same.

"She is healthy and robust, perfect in every way. Have you selected a name for her yet?"

"She is to be called T'Aria," he responded at once, unsure of where the name had come from. He and T'Pring had not discussed it beforehand, and the name was not common in either of their families, yet he had felt a strong compulsion, as if for some reason the name held a special significance for him. As it were, it conjured up the ghostly specter of a dark-haired Vulcan male with large, cobalt blue eyes. Oddly, he felt a strong connection to this man he had never met, just as the human Kirk had begun to occupy an important place in his psyche.

"It is fitting," the woman declared. "It means she-who-will-be-victorious."

Spock could only nod in agreement. T'Aria was certain to have much to overcome in her life. And yet, he did not doubt that she would surely be his salvation.

oooOOOooo

The last six months had been some of the happiest of his life. T'Aria had brought him more joy and satisfaction than he believed possible. T'Pring had immediately distanced herself from the child, interacting with her only when necessary. The duty of tending to the infant's needs had fallen primarily to Spock, and most importantly, to his mother.

After Sarek's death Amanda had made some veiled rumblings about returning to her family on Earth, but those had ceased the moment she found out T'Pring was expecting. A month after T'Aria's birth, T'Pring had returned to her job as curator of the Natural History Museum in Shi'Kahr, often traveling for days or even weeks to other locations about the planet to procure new specimens or to give lectures on existing ones.

Spock would drop T'Aria at his mother's house before work and collect her before returning home in the evenings. On those occasions when T'Pring was out of town, Amanda would often come and stay with them in Spock's home.

Such was the case now. He was sitting on the bench in his garden watching T'Aria, his mother and I'Chaya. The three were seated in the grass, busy at some odd game only they understood. Amanda was steadying the six-month-old, who would then take a few unaided steps before collapsing against the sehlat's bulky flank. As if encouraging—or perhaps rewarding—the child for her determination, I'Chaya's moist, pink tongue showered her with kisses, to squeals of delight from T'Aria and giggles of glee from his mother. Spock permitted himself a fleeting, secret smile. The two most important women in his life were thriving, and they were in turn providing him with a richness and depth to his time on this planet that had been lacking before.

Dark thoughts blotted out the amusing scene before him as he recalled his conversation with T'Pring before she left a few days ago on her latest excursion:

"Your human mother's influence over my daughter is unacceptable," she had announced, barging into Spock's personal study late one evening.

"In what way?" he responded coolly. "You have chosen a career over T'Aria. Were it not for my mother, the child would spend her days in the care of a nursemaid as opposed to family."

"She may be _your _family, but she is not mine, or T'Aria's. My child is of pure blood." T'Pring's eyes flashed. "I wonder how your mother would take the news; how she would react if she knew that T'Aria is not her biological grandchild."

"It would make no difference to the Lady Amanda. She has already bonded with my daughter, and believes fully in the concept of IDIC." He paused, rising to his feet. He walked around his desk, coming to a stop before T'Pring, hands clasped behind his back. "A pity more of our people do not adhere to the tenets of that philosophy." He had not raised his voice; his delivery had been even, calm, collected, but it was almost as if he'd struck the woman outright nevertheless.

His wife recoiled from the verbal slap. To her credit she recovered quickly. "Need I remind you that T'Aria is not yours, no matter how much you wish it to be so."

She then answered his next allegation. "If by IDIC you mean contamination, then I fully understand your point." T'Pring took a step toward him, her eyes hardening. "However, I fail to see the value in having my daughter exposed to human behaviors she will be forced to overcome before her kahs-wan. She is a true Vulcan, and deserves to be raised as such. In fact, I will do everything in my power to ensure that that is the case."

"Just as the choice was presented to me, and to all the other seven-year-olds who were preparing for the kahs-wan ordeal, it will be her decision," Spock responded.

T'Pring scoffed again. "You named her well, Spock, for she will have much to overcome—the stigma of her human grandmother and half-human father among other things, but she will emerge victorious, as her name suggests. And if she finds she cannot, I can always reveal the truth of her lineage at a later date."

"That would be most unwise," he countered.

She smirked again, looking at him through veiled lashes. "For you, or your human mother, perhaps," she supplied icily. "It would be the best thing for us."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "As much as you are inclined to believe you have arrived at decisions logically, or considered them from all angles, I do not believe that is the case here."

She leered openly at the remark. "You are forgetting, Spock—I have no human streak of nobility that would prevent it. What happens to you and your mother is of no importance to me."

"But you _are_ concerned with yourself. If you wish to do what is best for you, you would be wise not to cross me. You would find me to be a formidable opponent."

Her eyes fairly sparkled with delight. "I doubt that. So far, I have not seen anything which would bear out that hypothesis. I'll match wits with you in any given situation. Besides, your father is gone, and with it your influence among our people."

"You forget that I am still of the House of Surak. Were it revealed that T'Aria was not the child of my body this would grant me the right to divorce you publicly, stripping you of your new-found status. In fact, you would be reviled for your infidelity. As you so aptly pointed out, Sarek is dead. This news would no longer bring shame on him and therefore on my mother as well, and the opinions of those outside of my family mean nothing to me."

"But you would lose T'Aria. Are you willing to risk that?"

"I do not believe that would be the case. I could petition for custody, and ours is a logical society where the decision would be made in the best interest of the child and not based on biological ties."

"And what makes you think they would grant you—a half-breed—custody of a full-blooded child?"

"Is she really full-blooded? A DNA test would confirm that hypothesis rather quickly."

"I told you she is Stonn's; that I was with child before our marriage. She was born seven months after the koon-ut-kal-if-fee ceremony—a full month early by Vulcan standards, and yet she was full term. I was already a month pregnant when I was forced into your bed."

"Over the years I have learned that what you say and what you do are two very different things. I was also born at seven months, and full term. That could be a result of her human blood, not an indicator that she was conceived prior to my Pon Farr. Either way a paternity test would work in my favor: If she were not mine, I would then have grounds to divorce you. If she were mine, I could then reinstate your status as my chattel without retaliation from you. In either case you would be stripped of the station in life you so covet. Do you wish to risk either of those scenarios, or to maintain the status quo?"

She sank into a chair, the eyes that were gleaming moments before now haunted by uncertainty. She glanced away from her husband, carefully considering his words.

"I am willing to maintain this illusion of marriage and allow you to keep your status," Spock continued. "You can thank my human nobility for that—but you will no longer have any say in the care and raising of T'Aria. Should you question my mother's right to spend time with the child again, I can assure you there will be repercussions." This time it was his voice that had a hard edge to it.

"And what of your next Pon Farr?" she asked quietly, eyes downcast.

"Do not flatter yourself. It is most unbecoming. It was always my intention to seek the services of a surrogate, regardless of your preferences. That has not changed, nor is it likely to."

A weight settling beside him on the bench brought him back to the present.

"A penny for your thoughts, Spock," his mother teased.

"I beg your pardon?" he responded, his tone tongue-in-cheek.

Amanda laughed at that, a soft, musical sound. "Don't mince words with me my son—you know what I meant." The blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

He put on his best contemplative look. "I was thinking that you are good with T'Aria. She responds to you."

"Well, that's because I actually spend time with her, unlike her mother." Amanda's cheeks reddened, anger replacing the mischief.

"It is fitting," he responded, his gaze locking on hers. "Yours are the qualities I want her to carry with her into adulthood, not her mother's."

His mother was able to discern much from that statement as evidenced by the pain that settled over her features. "I'm sorry, Spock. At the time your father and I arranged for you to be bonded to T'Pring she seemed like such a sweet girl. I never would have expected her to turn out the way she did. You must understand; all your father and I ever wanted was for you to be happy."

"And you succeeded, Mother," he assured her. "T'Aria is a constant source of pride, as are you. My work is fulfilling and meaningful, and I have found my place here. It may be atypical, but I am satisfied with the path my life has taken." And yet, he could not explain to himself why he still felt something was missing; why there was a void that had yet to be filled in spite of his growing relationships with his mother and daughter.

Amanda looked away, her eyes coming to rest on the sehlat and his tiny companion. T'Aria was fast asleep, her head resting against a shaggy forearm. I'Chaya had curled his other paw protectively around her. He was sleeping as well.

"You know, watching T'Aria with I'Chaya reminds me of the time the two of you spent together when you were T'Aria's age," his mother said. "I still remember when Sarek introduced you to each other when you were only three months old. I was so afraid that I'Chaya would hurt you—either intentionally or accidentally—but your father assured me that sehlats had been protecting Vulcan children for millennia and would do all in their power to keep their young charges from harm, so long as they were properly acquainted." She paused, wiping at her cheek. "He would have liked T'Aria; been pleased to see how your life unfolded." She stopped again, swallowing hard. "I miss him, Spock."

He draped an arm across her shoulders. She responded to the implied request, resting her head against his side.

"I know, Mother, I know."

oooOOOooo

_**Six months later**_

He awoke, gasping, his penis hard and rigid, unsure of what had caused the unprecedented and unfamiliar state of arousal. His mind strayed to the dream, the images fuzzy, fleeting; hovering just beyond the edge of consciousness. The woman was beautiful; Vulcanoid and yet not Vulcan. Like with him, her emotions seethed just below the surface; unlike with him, she had no compunction about allowing them to show openly. Her fingers brushed his, her intentions clear, her need of him palpable. It kindled a fire T'Pring had never been able to coax from him. His body responded to her touch, much to his chagrin, his groin throbbing at the remembered pleasure induced by her gentle caresses. She wanted him, and was not afraid to make him aware of her feelings.

And he had wanted her; he could not deny the stirrings of his body, but there was another aspect to the dream, trampling his previously untapped desire as the heat of the unknown woman's touch faded. He had been assisting the one called Kirk; was supposed to be doing his part to complete a mission that had been assigned to them by Starfleet. Although the particulars eluded him, he strove to ensure that his personal feelings for the mysterious female did not interfere with that planned course of action. The young human captain was depending on him; expected him to distract the woman long enough to ensure their success. But the parameters of that mission were sketchy at best. As to what the ultimate prize was he had no clue. The only certainty was that he had killed the man he had come to think of as his friend while attempting to complete the assignment. Whether that was part of the plan or an unfortunate, unexpected development he did not know. And yet, somehow, this instance of snuffing out the man's life did not carry with it the guilt associated with killing the human during his koon-ut-kal-if-fee. It was almost as if he knew the captain was not truly dead; that this time, despite evidence to the contrary, the man still lived.

The images continued to stray into the sublime. After Kirk's supposed death he had seen the human sporting the pointed ears and upswept eyebrows of a Vulcanoid. Why? The more he tried to focus on this portion of the dream, the more indistinct the details became. Before long, the specifics had vanished into the gray twilight of his bedroom.

He swung his feet to the floor, crossing to the large, floor-to-ceiling window that made up one wall of his bedroom. Parting the curtains with his hand, his eyes strayed to the desert, and the L'langon Mountains beyond, before lifting to the panorama of the heavens. The stars twinkled brightly in the absence of light from a natural satellite. He found himself wondering at the location of the ship called _Enterprise_ and of her human captain—the man who had taken an unnatural hold over his subconscious mind.

oooOOOooo

An official from Starfleet was waiting for him in his office when he arrived at the VSA the next morning.

"Mister Spock," the short, stocky human announced, extending a hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you face to face."

Spock clasped his own hands behind his back. Clearly this man did not understand why Vulcans were averse to casually touching humans. "Mister O'Connor, I received word yesterday that you were en route to Vulcan. I trust your journey was uneventful?" he asked politely.

"It was, thank you," O'Connor answered, the hand dropping to his side.

"And how may I be of assistance, sir?"

The human glanced at the door, then back to Spock. "We need to be discreet. This is a very delicate matter."

Spock complied with the tacit request, closing the door and seating himself behind his desk. He gestured to the empty chair in front of it. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

The human settled into the seat, mopping at his brow with a handkerchief fished from his pocket. "We have 'procured' a piece of alien technology," he began without preamble. "It's scary stuff, and could prove detrimental to Starfleet, and the Federation as well, if we are unable to reproduce it, or at least find a way to counteract it."

Spock propped his elbows on the desk before him, steepling his fingers. "It would help my analysis greatly if I knew the function behind this 'alien technology.'"

The man lowered his voice, leaning toward Spock. "It's a cloaking device. Has the ability to hide an entire ship, both in the visual spectrum and from detection by sensors." The man shifted in his seat; pressed the handkerchief briefly to his upper lip before continuing. "I'm sure I don't have to explain to you the dangers a device of this nature represents to the Federation. It would allow enemy ships to invade our space without fear of detection. They could engage in covert espionage, learning our most closely-guarded secrets, or commit acts of terrorism outright without fear of discovery or retribution." The human searched his face. "Surely you see our dilemma, and the need to have this technology analyzed and counteracted as quickly as possible?"

"It does represent a tangible threat," he conceded. "Where is the device now?"

"I've taken the liberty of having it delivered to your lab. Your father would have realized the danger, and implications on the stability of the Federation posed by such a weapon. I did not believe his son would fail to do the same."

"I see." Spock paused for a moment, his thoughts straying to his dream of last night. Could the two somehow be related? "And where did you 'procure' this device?" he asked at last.

"I'm not at liberty to say. The important thing is we must understand the fundamentals behind how this thing works. Your lab has provided us with unparalleled assistance in the past. It goes without saying that we need your help now, as well as your discretion. Vulcans are not subject to idle gossip. They are one of the few races in the galaxy who can make that claim. This matter must be handled with kid gloves. Certainly we don't want our enemies to know we've gotten hold of this device, but until we know more about it Starfleet intends to share the information with precious few of our allies as well."

"It would seem to me that counteracting it is of more importance than being able to reproduce the technology," Spock reasoned.

"Agreed. That way, we can prevent unauthorized excursions into Federation territory, but in the meantime, if we can at least match it, that should maintain a balance of power between us and our enemies—we'll be capable of doing the same things they are. If they invade our space with hostile intentions, we can threaten to do the same."

"It was my understanding that Starfleet's efforts in these types of matters are always peaceful, diplomatic. Posturing and violence are used only when all other methods have failed."

"They are," the man countered, "but if threatened we will defend ourselves. Best that our enemies know this before testing our resolve on unsuspecting Federation planets or citizens."

Spock immediately grasped the enormity of the situation. "I can assure you sir, my department will do everything in its power to discover the mechanics behind this cloaking device as quickly as possible."

"Thank you, Mister Spock. Your help is greatly appreciated, and is sure to prove invaluable. If we don't figure this out promptly, it's a given that people will die."

oooOOOooo

_**Two months later**_

He was sitting at the computer terminal in his lab, but found himself unable to focus on the task at hand. The human friend from his dreams was gone.

Kirk was dead.

The subspace conversation he'd had not more than half an hour ago continued to play over and over in his mind, as if the feed was stuck on an endless loop:

"_Mister Spock, we find ourselves in need of your department's help once again."_

_He set down the stylus he had been using, focusing his full attention on the image of the man on the viewscreen. "Have you procured additional enemy technology, sir?" he'd asked._

_The Starfleet official had chuckled nervously, the sound harsh and grating like a massive rockslide coursing down the side of a mountain. "I wish it were that simple. One of our starships has discovered something which has the potential to destroy the universe as we know it."_

_Spock had merely raised an eyebrow, waiting for the man to continue._

"_Three weeks ago, we lost contact with the _Defiant_. She had been exploring an uncharted region of space in the Alpha Quadrant. As the _Enterprise_ was the closest vessel to _Defiant's_ last known location, she was dispatched to investigate._

"_What she found has rocked the very foundations of the known universe as we understand it."_

"_And that was…" he prodded, his curiosity piqued._

"_We believe there is a rent in space-time itself. A portal between universes if you will."_

"_Fascinating." Theoretical physics had postulated the existence of alternate universes for centuries. This represented the first time there might be concrete evidence to support such a theory. "Why do you believe such an event occurred?"_

"_I'll be transmitting both the sensor data and ship's logs containing all the pertinent information shortly, but in a nutshell the _Enterprise_ did find _Defiant._ It was as if the ship was there, but not there. They could see her on the viewscreen, but she seemed to wink in and out of existence. Analysis of sensor logs from that stardate indicates that the ship wasn't there, despite video logs to the contrary._

"_A landing party was beamed over to _Defiant_ where it was determined that some type of madness had spread swiftly throughout her crew." The man on the video feed stopped suddenly; glanced away briefly. "They mutinied, Mister Spock. For reasons we have yet to determine they turned on each other." He swallowed grimly. "No one survived."_

"_And you have no explanation as to the cause?"_

"_Not presently, but our main concern is that it might have been a weapon from the other side."_

"_Explain."_

"_We need to determine if there are just areas of space where the universes overlap or if the portal between them was opened by someone or something on the other side."_

"_What data were you able to retrieve from _Defiant's_ logs?"_

"_Very little, unfortunately. She became very unstable. The captain decided to recall the landing party, but the interphase was interfering with the proper functioning of the transporter. It wasn't possible to beam the entire party back to the _Enterprise_ at once. Jim Kirk opted to stay behind and send his men through first, but once they returned, the ship winked out of existence. Our concern is that she has been transported to the other universe, and we have no idea who or what is there. If she passed through the portal without being damaged, there's a chance an alien species from the other side could reverse-engineer her; could use her to learn about our technology and then send something through the breach that would completely destroy our universe. For all we know, they were already aware of us, and the fate suffered by _Defiant's_ crew was an experiment on their part to test such a weapon." A beat. "Or a ploy to capture one of our vessels intact."_

"_I see," he'd said, but found himself strangely obsessed with the fate that had befallen the young human he'd never met. "And what of the _Enterprise's _captain? Were they able to retrieve him?" he asked, fearing the worst._

"_Unfortunately, no. He disappeared along with _Defiant._ Initially the _Enterprise_ calculated that the next period of interphase would likely occur in approximately two hours. They had planned to remain on station in hopes of retrieving Captain Kirk should the _Defiant_ reappear at that time, but the _Enterprise_ herself, as well as members of her crew, began to suffer the effects of that region of space. Believing the captain to be dead the ship's first officer—a Commander Gary Mitchell—elected to leave the area, feeling it was more important to protect the lives of the remaining crew members and to report their findings to Starfleet rather than to risk everything in the hopes of retrieving one man."_

A ripple of antipathy passed through Spock. Recalling the name of the ship's second-in-command conjured up images of a young human male with graying hair and silver eyes. There was an indefinable malevolence about the man; a malevolence that made Spock question the man's right to survival.

He thrust himself out of his chair, confused and disgusted at himself. Murder was never a viable option, no matter the circumstances, or was it? His baffling grief at the news of Kirk's death was somehow bound to this man. Yes, Mitchell had abandoned his CO, opting to remove the _Enterprise_ from the dangers of the spatial interphase, but there seemed to be more to it than that. He didn't know why, but he believed this Gary Mitchell had tried to take Kirk's life in the past; remembered urging Kirk to kill Mitchell while he still could.

He forced his thoughts from the dark turn they had taken; focused on the problem at hand once again. Could this be what his dreams represented? A window into another universe where his life path had been different, his fate bound to that of the human Kirk? Had Starfleet inadvertently corroborated that which his subconscious had been telling him for years? He returned to his desk, reaching for the stylus and PADD resting atop, but his hand passed through both, like a hot knife slicing through a stick of butter.

As he looked around his lab, everything became transparent. He could see through his desk; was able to identify the contents within. The wall separating his lab from Sonek's also became translucent. He could see the other, peering into the ghostly shell of a microscope. It was happening; that which the Starfleet official had feared—the universe was dissolving around them. He watched in horror as Sonek winked out, the stool where he had been sitting now conspicuously empty. Klaxons started to sound; softly at first. They became louder, unrelenting, the high-pitched wails assaulting his delicate eardrums. He clapped his hands over his ears, but to no avail. The screech of the alarms continued to increase in volume until…

He awoke with a start, crumpled over the desk in his quarters. The intercom whistled insistently, demanding attention. He snapped on the viewer, which filled with the face of Jim Kirk.

"Spock, did you forget our chess game?" his friend chided good-naturedly. "It's not like you to be late, and you were supposed to be here ten minutes ago."

For a moment, Spock could only stare mutely at the viewscreen, disoriented, out of sorts. His confusion must have been showing clearly.

Kirk pushed his face closer to the screen. "Are you all right? You look tired."

That was an understatement if he'd ever heard one. The last six weeks had been particularly demanding, both physically and mentally. At that time, the ship had been tasked with deflecting a rogue asteroid on a collision course with an inhabited planet. The captain had been lost while the landing party attempted to make repairs to an asteroid deflection system left by a long-dead superior race to protect the primitive populace living there. When they had been unable to discover the secrets of the device, the ship had proceeded to the asteroid—without her captain—in hopes of destroying it with her phasers. They had been unsuccessful, damaging the warp engines in the process. It had taken a month to return to Amerind under impulse power, during which time Spock had gone virtually without sleep or food, consumed with both the problem of the dealing with the potential planet killer and the uncertainty of Kirk's fate. They had arrived just two short weeks ago with only hours to spare, barely deflecting the asteroid in time, and much to Spock's relief, finding and rescuing Kirk.

That episode had been compounded by the stress of retrieving his captain from the spatial interphase in which he was trapped only thirty-six hours ago. During the tense, hours-long standoff with the Tholians, the other senior officers aboard had urged him to abandon the rescue effort in favor of saving the ship and her crew. But he had known Kirk was still alive, and while he had opted not to share that information with his fellow officers, he had stubbornly refused to leave the captain to his fate.

Both of those ordeals still weighed heavily on him. In the course of six weeks he had almost lost this man twice. In his dreams, he had lost him forever. At the moment he was having difficulty reconciling that shadow world with the current reality. He continued to gaze silently at the viewer, drinking in the sight of a living, breathing Jim Kirk.

The captain spoke again. "I didn't mean to disturb you. If now's not a good time we can postpone our game," he said, brow furrowed, his eyes awash with concern.

Spock swallowed, licking his lips. "My apologies, Captain," he stammered. "I was merely completing the report on Tholian space for Starfleet and lost track of time." He could tell Kirk didn't believe that in the least, but was reluctant to call him on it. He found it nearly impossible to keep the warmth and affection he was feeling at seeing Kirk alive and well from his tone. "I shall be there presently, Jim," he replied, strangely moved by the intimacy associated with using Kirk's given name.

A grin stole slowly over the captain's features in response. "No hurry—finish what you need to, but I must admit, I'm looking forward to the company. Having a universe all to one's self certainly isn't all it's cracked up to be. Out."

The screen went dark, but a warm kernel of heat slowly blazed to life in the deep recesses of his mind. Jim may as yet be unaware of it, but he recognized the bond of t'hy'la, stretching out its delicate, fragile roots. He found that immensely gratifying. He would not wish to trade places with the Spock from the shadow universe, although he did feel a significant sense of loss over parting with T'Aria. Chances were that was the reality in some other time and place and he did envy his alter ego his bond to the child. Spock realized that having a child of his own was probably not in the realm of possibility for him at this juncture. He knew without question that the life he had in this universe would preclude the closeness the shadow Spock had shared with the infant.

He was pleased, too that his father had not succumbed to his heart condition. He expected things would have been much like they were in the dream for his mother had Sarek not survived, and truth be told, he had been greatly troubled to see the pain and anguish she had been forced to endure.

This would also give him, Spock, the incentive to repair his relationship with his father before it really was too late. He did truly respect Sarek, and believed that deep down, some part of his father was proud of him.

Spock understood very well the existence of parallel universes; had seen evidence of them for himself when the counterparts of Kirk and three other crewmen were transported from one into this reality during an ion storm. He felt a keen sense of empathy for those he had come to know, if only peripherally, in that alternate world.

And yet, he much preferred this universe, where he did not walk the path of life alone, but faced it head-on at Kirk's side. He was confused by the name T'Aria and the strange, blue-eyed Vulcan male of his dreams, though. As of yet, neither held a place of significance for him in this world._ Perhaps a shadow of what is to come_ he thought idly as he headed for the door to his quarters, and the friend waiting beyond.

FINIS

A/N: To learn more about the significance of T'Aria and the blue-eyed Vulcan male, see Spock's section of chapter three of my story 'Shadows and Dust.' More information about Sarek introducing Spock to I'Chaya can be found in the chapter of 'Moments' entitled 'Man's Best Friend.'

For those of you might need it, here's a list of episodes as they appear in this story:

The Naked Time  
Amok Time  
Journey to Babel  
Friday's Child  
The Enterprise Incident  
The Tholian Web  
Where No Man Has Gone Before  
The Paradise Syndrome


End file.
